Assorted Chapters
by Manchester
Summary: These are my own chapters that were contributed to various stories on Twisting the Hellmouth.  Ranges from cheerful fun to somewhat dark.  Rated as 'T' to be on the safe side.
1. I Thought I Was Going To Be An Exception

Author's Note: This and the following are my chapters from 'No One Here Gets Out Alive' a story created by Phouka on the site Twisting the Hellmouth, where she invited others to join in on the topic of crossovers between Buffy the Vampire Slayer characters and Death from the Sandman graphic novels.

* * *

*Hungerhungerhungerhunger*

*Clawripteardigupdigupupupup*

*FREEEEE!*

The instant the fledgling vampire burst through the surface of the ground covering his grave, the young woman standing next to the eruption of dirt casually leaned down and rammed a wooden stake through the chest of the newly-created monster, which produced an immediate dust cloud that intermixed with the last pattering dirt clods that had been flung upwards by the vampire's extremely short return to the world.

Straightening up, Buffy turned to where Xander and Willow were perching on their own individual tombstones, having nonchalantly watched her every action, all while passing a paper bag among themselves. Sniffing the air, the Slayer hopefully asked, "Any more popcorn, guys?"

"Saved you some, Buffster," cheerfully answered Xander as he handed his high-school friend the paper bag. As Buffy eagerly dug into the sack, the young man glanced over to where Willow was opening up her three-ring binder and checking a newspaper article tucked into that notebook. "So, Wils, where do we go next?"

The redheaded girl squinted in the moonlight, as she read the daily obituary section from the Sunnydale Times. Looking up, Willow declared, "We'll need to check out Shady Rest Cemetery at Section 3-B. Another barbecue fork incident."

Through her mouthful of popcorn, Buffy mumbled, "Geez, can't anybody ever come up with something more imaginative? Like, I don't know, an explosion in a chopstick factory?"

"We don't have one of those factories here in Sunnydale, Buffy," replied Willow in a serious tone.

Rolling her eyes, Buffy Summers snarked, "I was being sarcastic, guys!"

While standing next to the Slayer, Xander impertinently patted the superhuman girl on the top of her head, declaring, "And you've made tremendous progress in learning how to mock people! We're all so proud of our little Buffy!"

The addressed female stuck out her tongue at the teenage male snickering to himself. As the trio now headed off away from the disturbed grave past the other resting places of one of the town's twelve cemeteries, they started idly debating among themselves on whether the new principal of Sunnydale High could best be described as a troll or an ogre, with Xander being the swing vote, and as the departing teenagers' voices began trailing off in the distance, the boy was now gleefully suggesting that he could be bribed with the last of the popcorn to change his vote.

The bewildered man in his best suit standing by the grave stared after Buffy, Xander, and Willow as they faded into the darkness, until the man in his early thirties now tried to follow after the young people. However, his legs failed to obey his commands, with his feet remaining firmly in place by the grave. Looking down in increasing terror at his insubstantial form, the man began to remember the last moments of his former existence in the living world. Occupied in this, he paid no attention to the odd sound of the flapping of gigantic wings. Only when he heard someone else's thoughtful voice was the man's attention brought abruptly back to his surroundings.

"You know, I haven't visited this place all that much. Most people don't actually die _in _graveyards, so this location is kind of new to me, which is nice."

The man stared at the tombstone where Xander had been sitting a few minutes ago, which was once again occupied, only this time by a pale young woman dressed in a Goth-style black outfit now seated on the grave marker and carelessly swinging her left leg as she nodded to the gaping man. The ghost's mouth suddenly snapped shut, as he closed his eyes, to force out from between his tight lips, "I'm…dead."

"Right, and can we get to the next stage soon? Sorry about it, but I'm on a pretty tight schedule," sympathetically said the woman.

"And…you're Death, who's in a hurry and can't be bothered about me except to show up and collect me, which is the absolute stinking cherry on the top of my whole boring life and now my just as boring death!" finished the man in a rising voice that ended with him shouting angrily into the air at the top of his ghostly lungs.

An eyebrow as black as a raven's wing now arched in a somewhat bemused expression, as Death inquired, "Could you be a little more specific? What exactly are you so mad about?"

Still seized by his fit of anger that made him ignore who he was glaring at, the man now snarled, "Have you ever heard of Albert Camus?"

Slightly puzzled, Death politely answered, "Sure, he was a French novelist, dramatist, and philosopher. I collected him in, let me see…1960 or so."

The man nodded in agreement, adding, "Yes, of course, you'd know… Well, that writer once said: 'One sentence will suffice to describe modern man: he fornicated and he read newspapers.' That pretty well describes my whole totally dull, monotonous, ordinary life of ever-lasting tedium right up to the instant I got murdered by a vampire!"

Death actually blinked at that, as she reminded the man, "Hey, the last thing was pretty unique-"

"In SUNNYDALE?"

"Good point," admitted the second eldest of the Endless.

Beginning to come down from his fit of temper, the deceased man dolefully said, "It seems like the whole purpose of my entire existence was just to become an anonymous victim in this town and then just another anonymous vampire dusted by the Slayer." The man now cast Death an appealing glance, clearly asking for something to give him the slightest crumb of hope that his whole life hadn't indeed been leading up to exactly those trivial reasons.

Death just looked uncomfortable.

Seeing that, the man abruptly sat down by his grave, and he started to cry.

Without seeming to physically pass through the space separating them, Death was kneeling down by the weeping man, and she urgently said to his lowered head, "Now, listen to me! Who and what you were is now all in the past, and I'm here to take you to a new future. Most people think of me as the end, but what I truly am is a beginning, a commencement of the new and wonderful. An Englishman once wrote about me without knowing it, in his words of 'a sea-change, into something rich and strange.'

Hearing that, the man looked up, ghostly tear-tracks on his cheeks that were disallowed by his suddenly yearning expression. He husked, "I…really liked Ariel's song ever since I saw the play as a kid. That doesn't seem so bad."

By him, Death gently smiled, and she held out her hand.

As the man took the clasp of the kindest of the Endless, he hopefully asked, "Uh, could I, maybe, be the hero in a story? Like I've always wanted to?"

The young woman chuckled, and as the pair vanished from the graveyard, she merrily assured the man, "It's possible."

* * *

Author's Note: Phouka contacted me to ask if I wanted to join in on this story. After reading her and phoukabro's chapters, I decided not to write about the meeting of Death and a major BtVS character, but to instead write about one of the no-name characters who momentarily appeared on the show. That is, someone whose sole basis for their introduction was to promptly get killed off. I have a great deal of sympathy for these people, as evidently does Terry Pratchett, who wrote in the dedication of his novel 'Guards! Guards!' about those uncredited extras who only exist to get slaughtered, saying, "No one ever asks them if they wanted to."

Rest in peace, beloved ones.


	2. She Kindly Stopped For Me

Waiting patiently on her seat in one of the city's parks, Death mused on exactly how to characterize the coming event. It certainly wasn't unique, but then, virtually nothing in her ongoing existence could be called that, after so long. Rare, or extraordinary? No, not quite. After a few more moments of reflection, the pale young woman wearing black clothing perked up at finally realizing the correct word for what was just about to happen.

Uncommon, that described it perfectly.

Cocking her head, the second oldest of the Endless heard a loud noise break the previous silence of the park, where the usual inhabitants of squirrels and birds had hastily decamped some time ago, accompanied by the usually more obtuse humans who'd finally paid attention to their instincts urgently telling them to leave, _now_.

Listening to an internal-combustion engine laboring at its top speed, Death placidly watched as a yellow school bus barreled along the road by the park, with this vehicle being closely followed by an immense, onrushing cloud of dust. Just as the bus passed the seemingly-empty park (not that the riders were particularly in the mood to pick up anyone else), Death became engulfed in the dust cloud, and right after that, she felt her park bench suddenly drop out from under herself.

The long, backless seat that had been graciously donated to the city by one Richard Wilkins III, in memory of his beloved father Richard Wilkins II (and if any nosy parkers at the bestowing ceremony had wondered what exactly had happened to this older man that had never been seen in the company of his presumed son, they'd been discreet enough to keep their mouths shut lest they appear in tomorrow's edition of the newspaper obituaries), now started in its long fall downwards, as a still-seated Death sighed, and then she stood up.

It was the sheer principle of the thing, really, mused Death, as she floated in mid-air several hundred feet above the still-collapsing sinkhole. She certainly wasn't going to be influenced by gravity. Gravity was influenced by _her_, if this mutual force of attraction between all particles or bodies that had mass knew what was good for it.

Dismissing this idle thought, Death peered down with eyes that saw far more than the simple mortality of a single Passeridae. Nodding in calm satisfaction, the young woman knelt down, still at her spot in the air high above the crumbling ground (gravity was now hastily saluting and gabbling, "Whatever you want, ma'am!"), and she stretched out her arms that had infinite reach and capacity, to then gently grasp and hold a certain entity.

Getting back up to her feet without the slightest strain, a hovering Death cradled her burden, and smiling at what was in her arms, she cooed, "Hey there, kiddo! I know you're feeling kind of upset now, but don't worry. I'm going to take you to a place that's so much better than here, and you'll make lots of friends there. Especially once you start telling all the stories about what happened to you, since it's not like they can top those. Still, you and the others will have a lot of fun together, all of you. Won't that be nice? Just you, and Port Royal, Saint-Pierre, Yungay, Gorham…"

As Death paused, to again smile down at the soul of the entire physical town of Sunnydale that she still cuddled in her embrace, the surge of terror from this frightened entity that the Endless had been soothing now lessened, as instead the spirit of that magic-infused small California municipality began to convey its eagerness to be with others of its kind, those other places destroyed in the past by seemingly natural forces, so that it would never again be alone.

"And you won't," murmured Death in her soft promise, as she and her lovingly-carried burden then departed from the world, on their way to a joyous gathering of vanished cities that had once lived, holding all the races of men going around their daily business, until one day, disaster had struck…and Death had come. Come, and gone…with the souls of the places themselves that had been called by their inhabitants "home," which was a word having actual magic in that declaration. Magic that had unknowingly caused the creation of something new in the universe…and brought a tender smile to the pale face of she who would be there for the beginning and ending of all things.

Death took Sunnydale home.


	3. Fee, Fo, Fum, The Blood Of A Slayer

Author's Note: This and the following chapters are my additions to the story 'List Of Things Dawnie Is Not Allowed To Do' by emw on Twisting the Hellmouth.

* * *

Her face a thunderous mask of fury, Faith handed Dawn the shovel and grimly pointed down the street to where the size 120-ZZZZ shoes rested, toes pointed upwards. Dolefully carrying her digging implement, the younger Summers sister slunk off in the indicated direction, while Faith herself stalked towards the house.

Sitting on the ground and leaning back against the stump of the immense beanstalk that had been frantically chopped through several minutes ago, an exhausted Xander knew exactly where the Boston-born Slayer was going and what the woman would do when she got there. Frankly, he totally agreed with the new addition Faith would put on the list:

'Trade Faith's motorcycle for three magic beans.'


	4. Let Me Jot Down A Couple Notes

From her dungeon cell, Dawn glared through the floor-to-ceiling bars at her kidnapper pacing back and forth in front of her prison and uttering a truly irritating cackle between his boasts of world domination. This captor was a burly demon of some sort, wearing a particularly tasteless robe laden with tawdry jewelry that showed where hip-hop bling must have gone to die, and with features thankfully covered by a black half-mask with a red blotch on its forehead that was either a symbol of eldritch power or more likely a ketchup stain from lunch at Mickey D's.

After listening to an absolutely idiotic assertion on exactly how that monster was going to conquer the globe, Dawn squeezed shut her eyes in exasperation, and growled a pithy statement concerning that specific plan. An instant later, she smelled something really vile, and her eyes popped open, to now see the demon standing nearly nose-to-nose with her, separated only by the cell bars. With world-class halitosis in his every breath, the furious fiend snarled at his prisoner, "_What _did you say?"

Dawn actually took a step back, until her own anger manifested itself, with the young woman standing there confronting the demon, to then begin slowly and loudly repeating her former statement, and also adding a few more suggestions.

Behind his mask, the demon's red eyes with black slitted pupils bulged in actual astonishment, that changed to pure, murderous rage, and then to…a blink of sheer contemplation. In a much calmer tone, the demon thoughtfully agreed, "That actually makes sense. Say, do you know any more of those recommendations?"

A boggled Dawn stared at the demon patiently waiting for her to go on. Thinking quickly that every second distracting her captor meant more time for her friends to show up and rescue her, Dawn nodded her head, and the young woman began talking.

Finally, when Dawn's voice was turning hoarse, and the demon was sitting on the floor by the yard-high stack of paper he'd filled out, the wall across the cell vanished in thin air, and right after that, Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Faith did what they'd spend the next several days arguing about, on exactly which of them was the first to shoot, stab, decapitate, and fricassee that unfortunate demon.

Rubbing her throat, Dawn croaked out, "What kept you guys?"

Rather than her usual beaming smile of sisterly love, Buffy now sent a major glower at her sibling, adding in a menacing rumble, "Did you know we were listening to you by Willow's spell the last fifteen minutes when we were tunneling here?"

"Ooops," gulped Dawn, as the Slayers, both wearing identical disgusted expressions, came forward to pull open the cell bars.

Willow snapped, "Yes indeed, missy, 'Ooops!' You know what's going to happen when we get back to the house! Right, Xander?" The witch glanced over at her friend by the redhead's side, with that one-eyed man also having an exasperated look on his face.

"Yup," agreed the former Sunnydale native. "It goes right on the list of things Dawnie's not allowed to do. Never recite the entire Evil Overlord List to potential wrongdoers. They don't need good advice."


	5. What Happened After Bill?

Author's Note: This is my chapter from the story 'Tales From The Barman…Part II' by Methos on Twisting the Hellmouth.

* * *

Xander looked up from polishing a bar glass when the woman decked Andrew.

It was a nice, clean hit, with a good follow-through, instantly knocking Andrew out, so that his unconscious body bonelessly dropped to the floor, with his chin bouncing off the tiles as the man finally came to a rest. It was indeed resting, not death, as shown by Andrew's stentorian breathing.

Xander continued his polishing. While Andrew had truly improved his personality ever since Sunnydale, the man still had an occasional attack of the stupids. On his first visit to Xander's new version of his rebuilt bar again called "Nights", the former member of that incompetent gang of would-be super-villains had insisted he knew the rules on how to behave in the bar. From the looks of things, maybe he needed a refresher course. And an ice pack.

Waiting a few discreet moments, Xander edged over from his former position behind the bar to stand closer to the woman in the trench coat who'd turned on her stool back to the bar, all while the man concentrated on getting the glass really, really clean. Still not looking directly in the hard face of the blonde woman staring blankly ahead at the wall over her double Scotch, Xander murmured, as if to his bar towel, "Sorry about that. Would you like a drink on the house?"

There wasn't any response from the woman for several seconds, until she reached into her front jeans pocket, pulling out a wad of cash and tossing this onto the bar counter. In a slightly hoarse voice, the woman muttered, "Just give me a bottle of the same stuff, and leave it."

Xander blinked. That was her second double Scotch, and she'd just asked for a lot more. Reluctantly putting away the glass, Xander flipped the towel to rest on his shoulder, and cleared his throat to cautiously say, "Ah, you might want to consider a taxi service, if you're driving-"

A raspy chuckle came from the woman, who now turned bitter eyes to look at an uncomfortable California native. "I'm not. Get me the booze, or I'll get it somewhere else."

The bartender hesitated. That didn't sound good, but deep inside the woman's voice, Xander also heard a desperate need. So, he reached under the bar for the good stuff, looking down to see he was collecting the correct bottle. During that, he heard the woman speak in a savage rasp, "What a bunch of steaming crap!"

A startled man looked up, the bottle of Scotch in his hand, to see the woman's face now having a disdainful sneer, as she stared at something behind Xander, on the trophy wall. The one-eyed man had been starting again his collection of items signifying a story told by bar patrons, placing these on shelves or hooks, or otherwise attaching them to the wall. Xander followed her gaze at a sheet of paper pinned to the partition, which had written on it a short phrase, "Shared pain is lessened; shared joy is increased; thus do we refute entropy... Mike."

Xander's attention was jerked away from what Mike Callahan had once given him by the woman's jeering remark, "Hey, you!" His head snapped around, to be pinned by glittering eyes of rage and grief and anger and so many more emotions, as the woman snarled to Xander, "So, you think pain gets less when shared? Okay, let me tell you about a...'friend' of mine." The harsh voice had actual acid etch itself in the air to signify the quotation marks around that specific word. Without waiting for Xander to make his decision, the speaker grabbed her glass and completely drained it, slamming it back on the bar, to cough, "Gimme 'nother, and leave the damn bottle!"

An unspeaking Xander obeyed, placing the bottle of Scotch at the woman's elbow, and made her another double. Then he took a step back, folding his arms across his chest, and looked steadily into the woman's embittered features.

"My...friend was an assassin."

Xander kept his own face blank over this, as the woman continued. "Yeah, a good one too, along with her...associates, some of the bloodiest bitches that ever walked the face of the earth. They were a pack of killers that named themselves after the deadliest, most poisonous snakes on earth. Of course, with every pack, there's always a top dog. In this case, a guy named Bill." About half of the new drink was now gulped.

"He was charming, sweet, took care of everyone, made sure they had everything to do their jobs, and my friend started thinking here was the one for her, and he was quite willing to go along. So, they got closer...until one day my friend found out exactly what Bill was like. A stone-cold monster, pure evil, and perfectly fine with it." The last half of the glass was finished, and the woman pushed it again to Xander, who unthinkingly refilled it, caught up in the story.

"She ran. As far as she could get, ending up at a small town well off the beaten path, and hid. Until she met a genuinely kind man, who didn't know anything about her except she seemed to be nice, so he asked her to marry him. And she said yes." Another gulp.

"At the start of the wedding, the church was filled with the groom's family, because naturally my friend didn't have anyone there for her. Until Bill and the rest of the snakes showed up." The glass was raised to the woman's lips, only to shake in her hand so hard it clattered against her teeth, and this was dropped back onto the bar.

"They killed everyone there. Him, his family and friends, the minister, the bridesmaids, the flower girls. And before she could tell Bill she was pregnant with his child, he shot her, too, in the head."

A horrified Xander stared at a long scar easily discernable at the top of the woman's head.

"She was in a coma for years, and during that, she was raped and abused by the hospital orderlies. Until one day, she woke up, found out how long it had been, and got out of there. All knowing she no longer had a child." This time, she managed a swallow of her drink.

"She recovered, got back into shape, and tracked them all down, to make them pay. Every one of the snakes, and an ocean of blood later, only Bill was left. Finally, she found him...with her child, a daughter."

Xander grabbed a glass, poured the nearest bottle at hand into it, and gulped the alcohol without even tasting it.

"They had a fine day as a family, and that night, my friend and Bill had a nice, civilized discussion that ended up with her killing him." The ice in the woman's glass rattled as she tilted it up to drain the very last drops. Putting her empty glass gently back onto the bar, the woman looked Xander full in the face and gave him a crazed smile. "So, she walked away with her daughter, happy ending, roll credits, head to the exits through the sticky movie theater floors, right?"

Xander didn't say anything, as the woman then slowly turned her head to stare once more at the phrase on the wall that had started it all. Her eyes blank, she whispered, "A couple of months later, my friend woke up in her bed crying so hard the entire bed shook, did it all day. Couldn't stop, scared B.B. nearly to death, felt so miserable that killing myself looked appealing."

With extreme difficulty, the man kept his face blank over the woman's slip.

"Exactly one year later, to the day, the same thing happened, and it was even worse since I knew exactly how it would be like when it happened again. Not even my daughter could get my mind off it. The only thing that kept me from ending it was that maybe there was some kind of reason for it, so I tried to think of anything to explain it. And...I did."

Still looking at the wall, the woman closed her eyes, and tears trickled down her cheeks. "That day...would have been the anniversary of my marriage." She gulped. "In all my life…all the deaths...at least there was a reason for it. Not then, at that wedding with all those innocents, when they came to see two people joined together in joy, only to be murdered for just being there. And it was all my fault."

Xander opened his mouth, stopping at the woman's weary shake of her head. "Please, don't. I've tried all the justifications, the rationalizations. They don't work. No excuses. But...I managed to convince myself that penance can be made, if done in the proper way, and so far, it's worked."

The distressed man watched the woman look at the wall clock of the bar, which was close to midnight. Staggering to her feet from the stool, the woman reached under her trench coat, and produced a scabbarded Japanese samurai sword, carefully laying this across the bar counter. She then reached into a coat pocket, and pulled out more cash, tossing this by the sword.

Ignoring the money, but staring at the sword, the woman spoke, knowing Xander was listening. "My daughter will be taken care of, no matter what, and she knows I love her. So...I'm gonna take this bottle with me, walk to the nearest combat zone, drain the bottle completely...and then whatever happens, happens. Maybe in a few days, you'll get a message telling you where to send the sword, using that money there. If not...then hang it on your wall, and tell the story to whoever you like."

Not looking at Xander, the drunk woman clumsily grabbed the bottle of Scotch, and started towards the bar door, weaving slightly, but her back straight, as she went on her way to battle the demons of her mind.

Xander spent a long time gazing after the blonde woman, even when the door closed. He kept on doing this, until a now-awake Andrew pulled himself up from the floor by gripping the stool, with that man with the aching jaw finally scrambling onto that seat. Elbows resting on top of the bar, Andrew clutched his head, and moaned, "All I did was to ask her if she still had her yellow jumpsuit."

"Shut up, Andrew."


	6. Have A Drink At The Henchman's Bar

Author's Note: This is my own story, where I invited other authors on Twisting the Hellmouth to share their contributions.

* * *

Despite its name, its clientele, and the fact that it was located in its own pocket dimension, the Henchman's Bar was just like any other watering hole throughout the Multiverse. It was the cherished hangout for an assortment of minions, goons, underlings, and the like from all known times, existences, and realities that gathered together after a hard day at work, gratefully downed their brewskies, and then enjoyed a chance to safely grouse among themselves about their boss's latest stupid scheme. Much later on in the evening, if they were lucky, the newbies on their first visit to the bar would be the recipients of various, mostly-drunken, handy tips on how to survive working for people whose idea of employee relations was to expect absolute obedience for such orders as, "You there, what's-your-name, get ready to single-handedly fight off the Justice League while I escape through the secret tunnel!"

Over the years, a spot at the back of the bar, by the bulletin board with its bowling league sign-up sheet, had become covered with graffiti that presented some of the more sensible advice dispensed by uncredited, third-rank, subordinates before they'd passed out at their tables. On the wall by the phone nook, diverse beings had scraped with flint knives, hacked with battleaxes, and burned into the plaster using their laser pistols such hard-won pearls of wisdom as:

THE JOKER HAS NO SENSE OF HUMOR REGARDING THE JOY-BUZZER GAG BEING USED ON HIM.

IF YOUR DARK LORD INSISTS ON WEARING A CAPE, ALWAYS HANG BACK A FEW PACES WHILE MARCHING AFTER HIM; THEY GET REALLY CRANKY WHEN YOU STEP ON THIS.

IT'S NOT A GOOD IDEA TO ATTRACT LEX LUTHOR'S ATTENTION BY YELLING, "HEY, BALDY!"

NEVER GOOSE SAURON.


	7. Relatives

Daughter:

AS A CHAMBER GUARD, NEVER REACT THE SLIGHTEST WHEN THAT HUSSY DRAPES HERSELF ALL OVER YOU DURING HER SEDUCTION OF THE HERO, EVEN IF YOU HAVE TO BITE OFF YOUR TONGUE.

Son:

MAKE FRIENDS WITH THE LITTLE SNOT; IF HE ACTUALLY SUCCEEDS IN OVERTHROWING DADDY, YOU'LL BE IN CLOVER, AND IF HE SCREWS UP, EXPLAIN TO THE DARK LORD YOU WERE LOYALLY KEEPING AN EYE ON HIM AND HAND OVER YOUR LIST OF HIS OTHER FRIENDS.

Wife:

IT DOESN'T MATTER HOW STACKED AND BORED SHE IS, JUST BEFORE YOUR FIRST VISIT TO HER ROOMS, TRIP AND FALL UPON YOUR CEREMONIAL DAGGER IN A NOT TOO PAINFUL SPOT ON YOUR BODY. EXTRA POINTS FOR HOW CLOSE YOU GET TO YOUR GROIN.

Brother:

IF HE WAS ANY GOOD, HE'D _**BE **_THE DARK LORD. ARRANGE FOR A TRANSFER TO A TOWN FIVE HUNDRED MILES AWAY FROM HIM, THAT GUY'S A WALKING DEATH SENTENCE.

Mother-in-law:

ACCIDENTAL WEAPONS DISCHARGE = DARK LORD'S ETERNAL GRATITUDE = WINNING THIRD OF KINGDOM AND HAND OF DAUGHTER (YOU FELT HOW BIG THEY WERE WHEN SHE WAS ALL OVER YOU, REMEMBER?).

Family:

THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS HAPPY FAMILIES AMONG DARK LORDS, BUT AFTER HE'S BEEN OVERTHROWN, SOMEBODY HAS TO SHOW THE HERO HOW TO RUN THINGS. HINT THAT YOU CAN TELL MR. BIG SHOT'S NEW WIFE ABOUT A CERTAIN NIGHT IN SOMEONE'S CHAMBERS.


	8. Whittling Down His Forces

This is the _only _mission a henchman should ever volunteer for. It's a soft job that gets you out of the main citadel with its executions for failures (just send in optimistic reports), allows you a chance to skim off some quick cash, and offers the possibility of a few laughs. What's not to like?

The faithful sidekick:

SET UP A MEETING ON NEUTRAL GROUND, POINT OUT TO HIM THE FINAL BATTLE USUALLY WINDS UP WITH THE HERO THE ONLY MAN REMAINING ON HIS FEET, AND HAND OVER THE DEED TO A GOOD FARM WITH LOTS OF PEACE AND QUIET AND THE POSSIBILITY OF A LONG, LONG LIFE.

The highly intelligent pet whatever (dog, monkey, triceratops, etc.):

NOTIFY THE HUMANE SOCIETY THIS ANIMAL IS BEING CONSTANTLY TAKEN INTO DANGEROUS SITUATIONS. THAT ORGANIZATION WILL PROMPTLY SEIZE THE PET INTO THEIR CUSTODY, AND THEN LET THE HUMANS GO OFF TO GET KILLED WITHOUT BATTING AN EYE.

The girlfriend:

A SMOKY HIDDEN CAMP IN THE FOREST, A BAKING CARAVANSERI IN THE DESERT, A LEAKING GARBAGE SCOW IN A FORCE-TEN GALE, AND THE LIKE WILL DO NOTHING FOR YOUR COMPLEXION, HONEY. PLUS, NONE OF THEM HAVE A BIDET. JUST LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER WHEN SHE SAYS SHE'S FOUND A NICE BOY FOR YOU CLOSE TO HOME.

The doddering wizard:

SIGN THE COMMITMENT PAPERS UNDER A FORGED NAME. AFTER THE FIRST FEW GUYS GET TURNED INTO FROGS, THE REST OF THE PSYCH SQUAD WILL BE TOO MAD TO CHECK ON THIS, AND A NICE COURSE OF ELECTROSHOCK THERAPY AND TRIPLE DOSES OF THORAZINE SHOULD TAKE CARE OF HIM.

The seer(ess), comic relief, wandering minstrel, dancing-bear owner, et al.:

VEGAS IS THE PLACE FOR YOU, BABY. I GOT A SIX-MONTH CONTRACT RIGHT HERE, JUST SIGN ON THE DOTTED LINE…


	9. Fashion Tips

THE FULL FACE MASKS WITH THE TEENY EYESLITS MEANS YOU DAILY RISK FALLING INTO THE TIGER PIT, A WAR ELEPHANT IN FULL ARMOR CAN SNEAK UP ON YOU, AND IT GETS TOTALLY DISGUSTING INSIDE THERE DURING ALLERGY SEASON. ON THE OTHER HAND, YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH STICKING OUT YOUR TONGUE AT AN UNKNOWING DARK LORD SAYING SOMETHING STUPID.

METAL CODPIECES CONDUCT HEAT VERY WELL. AVOID BONFIRES, LASER BEAMS, AND GUYS WITH A DESTINY WIELDING THEIR FLAMING SWORDS.

WHEN PROTECTING THE SUPERVILLAIN'S COMPUTER CENTER, WEAR NERDY CLOTHES UNDER YOUR GUARD OUTFIT, PUT THE THICKEST CLEAR GLASSES YOU CAN FIND IN YOUR POCKET, AND PRACTICE QUICK CHANGES. WHEN THE HERO AND HIS BAND OF BROTHERS RAID THE PLACE, THE GUARDS ARE ALWAYS TARGETED, BUT THE GOOD GUYS PREFER TO SHOOT UP THE BIG MACHINES WITH THE FLASHING LIGHTS INSTEAD OF THE LESS SPORTING TECHNICIAN GEEKS DIVING UNDER THEIR DESKS, YOU INCLUDED.

THE TRAMP AND CLATTER OF YOUR ALL-STEEL BOOTS ON YOUR ROUNDS MAKES THE BOSS FEEL REALLY MANLY. IT ALSO SENDS A WARNING TO THE RESISTANCE SNEAKING INTO THE CASTLE, WHICH IS ACTUALLY JUST FINE. LET THE OTHER GUARD BE THE ONE TO ACQUIRE A CONCUSSION.

RIG UP A QUICK-RELEASE CLIP FOR YOUR KILT, AND MAKE SURE TO DRESS IN THE MOST RIDICULOUS UNDERWEAR POSSIBLE. NOBODY EVER KILLS THE GUY WHOSE PANTS FALL DOWN DURING THE FINAL BATTLE, THEY ALWAYS LAUGH AND ALLOW YOU TO RUN AWAY.


	10. Have Another Drink At The Henchman's Bar

Just like the rest of us working slobs, henchmen keep a wary eye upon their boss's mood. However, minions are especially concerned about what kind of day the Dark Lord is having, considering that this bloodthirsty, psychopathic monster is as a rule really quick with the Crucios, or he likes to caress the desk switch that drops you though the trapdoor into the seething pool of lava that's bubbling away in the basement.

Fair enough; the underlings knew what they were getting into when they agreed to start working for His Viciousness. Still, it's much more stable for everyone when the bloodthirsty, psychopathic monster consistently remains a bloodthirsty, psychopathic monster. Unexpected personality changes are not something that exactly reassure the faithful followers of the Master of Doom, so when these occur, word is quickly passed around during shift changes, cigarette breaks, and slave floggings, with anxious comparisons to his normal- Um. Let's instead use _customary _behavior. Along with succinct comments apprehensively expressed by those just learning about their Evil Overlord's recent wacky actions.

Good:

EARLY ONE MORNING, THE VALET SHAKING AWAKE HIS MASTER IS GRABBED BY THE NECK AND HALF-STRANGLED, TO THEN BE CONTEMPTUOUSLY DROPPED ONTO THE BEDROOM FLOOR.

Bad:

EARLY ONE MORNING, THE VALET SHAKING AWAKE HIS MASTER IS GRABBED IN A LOVING HUG, A SLOPPY KISS IS BESTOWED ON HIS CHEEK, AND A STILL-SLEEPY VOICE MUMBLES INTO HIS EAR, "OOOOO, COMMANDER ZOOM, THOSE TIGHTY WHITES REALLY SHOW OFF YOUR TONED THIGHS!"

Good:

MANIACAL LAUGHTER COMES FROM THE DUNGEON ANNEX BY THE DARK LORD'S CHAMBERS.

Bad:

MANIACAL LAUGHTER COMES FROM THE BATHROOM.

Not-so-bad:

EVEN IF THE LATEST ISSUE OF PLAYBOY MAGAZINE WAS DELIVERED YESTERDAY, IT'S STLL NOT A GOOD IDEA TO DISTURB HIS "ME" TIME.

Good:

TOSSING A HALF-GNAWED DRUMSTICK IN FRONT OF THE SAVAGE MASTIFF SPRAWLED AT HIS FEET, THE DARK LORD SEATED ON THE BREAKFAST BALCONY SADISTICALLY GIGGLES AT SEEING THE LATEST PRISONERS TRAMPLED TO DEATH BY HIS TRAINED ELEPHANT DOWN IN THE COURTYARD.

Bad:

DAINTILY SHARING HIS FORKFUL OF QUICHE WITH THE EAGER CHIHUAHUA PERCHED ON THAT PET'S TINY BED ATOP THE TABLE, THE DARK LORD SEATED ON THE BREAKFAST BALCONY HAPPILY GIGGLES AT THE DOZEN WELL-SCRUBBED TYKES FROM THE LOCAL ORPHANAGE CHORUSING A MEDLEY OF PATRIOTIC AIRS DOWN IN THE COURTYARD.

Good:

INSIDE THE HEADQUARTERS TENT DURING THE CONFERENCE OF WAR, A DEFEATED GENERAL WHIMPERS IN AGONY WHILE IMPALED UPON A STAKE IN THE FAR CORNER, AS A GRIM DARK LORD EXPLAINS TO HIS COMMANDERS THE NEWEST PLAN TO UTTERLY CRUSH THE NATION THAT DARES TO DEFY HIM.

Bad:

ENGROSSED IN HIS POWERPOINT PRESENTATION, THE DARK LORD CONTINUES HIS SIX-HOUR LECTURE ON SUCH TOPICS AS 'JOB PERFORMANCE GOALS', 'INCREASING PRODUCTIVITY', AND 'DEDICATION TO QUALITY', WITHOUT EVER REALIZING HIS SUBORDINATES' BRAINS TURNED TO MUSH FIVE MINUTES AFTER THE MEETING STARTED.

Desperately:

*IF I BRING ALONG MY OWN STAKE NEXT TIME, I THINK COMMITTING SUICDE WILL BE WORTH IT.*

Good:

STOMPING IN HIS JACKBOOTS ALONG THE LINE OF DOOMED MEN, THE DARK LORD SNARLS TO THEM THAT EITHER THEY SUCCEED IN THEIR HOPELESS MISSION, OR THEIR FAMILIES HELD HOSTAGE WILL SUFFER.

Bad:

SKIPPING ALONG IN HIS SLIPPERS AS HE INSPECTS HIS FINE TROOPS, WITH AN OCCASIONAL PINCH UPON THEIR CHEEKS - BOTH UPPER AND LOWER - THE DARK LORD BEAMINGLY DECLARES TO THOSE DARLING BOYS, "LADS, IT'S NOT WHETHER YOU WIN OR LOSE, IT'S HOW YOU PLAY THE GAME!"

Good:

AS AROUND HIM THE MASSIVE ORGY CONTINUES THROUGHOUT THE ROOM, THE DARK LORD BROODING ON HIS THRONE CONTEMPLATES THE UTTER WORTHLESSNESS OF HUMANITY.

Bad:

*THIS IS THE MOST MEANINGFUL THING I'VE EVER DONE, BRINGING CULTURE TO THE MASSES,* HAPPILY THOUGHT THE SEATED DARK LORD ABSENTLY WAVING A GAUNTLETED FINGER AS IF CONDUCTING THE MINOR MOZART AIR BEING PERFORMED BY THE CLASSICAL MUSIC QUARTET. *SEE, EVEN THAT GUARD THERE IS BECOMING MORE REFINED, JUDGING BY HOW ABSORBED HE LOOKS IN THE SHEER ELEGANCE OF THIS COMPOSITION.*

Sullenly:

*I RAN AWAY FROM THE FARM AND JOINED THE SIDE OF THE MOST EVIL BASTARD EVER TO WALK THE EARTH, JUST FOR _THIS_? WHERE'S ALL THE ORGIES THAT I HEARD OF? IF I WANTED TO LISTEN TO FARTING SOUNDS, I WOULD'VE STAYED IN THE COWBARN!*

Good:

CLOSING THE CURTAINS FOR THE NIGHT, THE VALET THEN TIPTOED OVER TO THE BED AND GENTLY TUGGED FROM UNDER THE DARK LORD'S LIMP HAND THE WORN COPY OF MACHIAVELLI'S 'THE PRINCE.'

Bad:

CLOSING THE CURTAINS FOR THE NIGHT, THE VALET THEN TIPTOED OVER TO THE BED AND GENTLY TUGGED FROM UNDER THE DARK LORD'S LIMP HAND THE TATTERED STUFFED ANIMAL KNOWN FONDLY AS 'MR. SNUGGLES.'


	11. Henchmen In The DC Universe

YES, IT'S TRADITIONAL, BUT YOU'LL STILL FEEL INCREDIBLY STUPID WHEN AFTER YOU SHOOT SUPERMAN WITH ALL YOUR BULLETS, YOU THEN THROW YOUR EMPTY GUN AT HIS CHEST.

THE LAST GUY TO ASK THE BATMAN JUST HOW LONG HE SPENT SNEAKING AROUND THE BOSS'S LAIR TO FIND THE PERFECT SPOT TO CAST THAT OMINIOUSLY-LOOMING SHADOW NEVER FOUND ALL HIS TEETH AFTERWARDS.

LOOKING AT THEM IS FINE, BUT LEERING IS NOT, AND THEIR BOUNCING FACTOR ALSO EQUALS HOW HARD ANY 38D SUPERHEROINE CAN HIT YOU.

ASKING FOR AUTOGRAPHS IN THE MIDDLE OF A FIGHT IS REALLY, REALLY TACKY, EVEN IF YOU TELL THEM IT'S FOR YOUR MOM.

BE THE FIRST TO TAKE A POTTY BREAK AT THE MEREST HINT OF THE FOLLOWING: GREEN ENERGY, A TWANGING BOWSTRING, YOUR IDENTICAL DOUBLE, A RED STREAK, WHITE EYESLITS IN A BLACK COWL, AND A WHOOSHING SOUND.

THE TABLOIDS ARE NOT INTERESTED IN THE TRUTH, DESPITE THE GUY IN SHACKLES SWEARING HE NEVER EVEN MET HER AT THE WATCHTOWER BANQUET.

ANY THEME VILLAIN WHO PROVIDES YOU WITH A BALONEY SANDWICH AND A GLASS OF WATER FOR LUNCH WILL NEVER PAY UP ON YOUR SHARE OF THE LAST BANK JOB.

DON'T EVER ASK ANY OF THE TEEN TITANS IF THEY'VE STARTED SHAVING YET. FOR SOME ODD REASON, THE GIRLS ARE THE ONES WHO REALLY RESENT THAT QUESTION.

WHEN THE HEROES THREATEN TO BEAT YOU INTO A PULP IF YOU WON'T TALK, CONFESS TO EVERYTHING YOU'D DO WITH X-RAY VISION, A MULTI-BILLION DOLLAR FORTUNE, A MAGIC LASSO, INVISIBILITY, AND THEN ASK THEM THE LAST TIME THEY EVEN HAD A DATE, MUCH LESS GETTING LUCKY. THE RESULTING CONCUSSION WILL DAMN WELL BE WORTH IT.


	12. Henchmen In The Marvel Universe

SMART GUYS MAKE SURE THEIR EARS ALSO GET WEBBED WHEN LOSING TO SPIDERMAN; THERE'S NO OTHER WAY TO BLOCK OUT THAT JERK'S ENDLESS MOTORMOUTH.

WHEN THE X-MEN ATTACK, CLAIM YOU'RE A MUTANT AND WHEN THEY ASK YOU TO PROVE IT, CALL THEM A BUNCH OF RACISTS FOR CONSIDERING ONLY THOSE WITH EVIDENT POWERS OR LOOKS TO BE PART OF THEIR SPECIES. THAT SHOULD CONFUSE THEM LONG ENOUGH FOR YOU TO ESCAPE.

TELL YOUR BOSS TO STRIKE IN MANHATTAN ONLY BETWEEN MEMORIAL DAY AND LABOR DAY; ANY HERO THERE THAT MIGHT INTERFERE WILL BE WEARING THEIR COSTUMES UNDER THEIR REGULAR CLOTHES, AND THEY'LL PROMPTLY PASS OUT FROM HEATSTROKE DURING AN USUAL NEW YORK CITY SUMMER.

JUST FOR FUN, INVENT A FICTITIOUS ANIMAL WITH A TOTALLY RIDICULOUS NAME (A FLURSNAGLE, SAY) THAT WAS RECENTLY DISCOVERED IN DARKEST BORNEO, ADD IT TO WIKIPEDIA, AND WAIT TO SEE HOW LONG IT'LL TAKE FOR SOMEONE WITH POWERS (GOOD OR EVIL) TO DRESS UP AS IT.

WHENEVER THE MONARCH OF LATVERIA PROCLAIMS HIS NAME, IT'S REALLY NOT A GOOD IDEA TO BE THE ONE TO MOCKINGLY PROVIDE A BACKGROUND ECHO OF "DOOM, DOOM, DOOM…."

DO NOT EVER PISS OFF THE NYPD, GIVEN THAT IN FORTY-PLUS YEARS OF CONFISCATING WEAPONS CARRIED BY DEFEATED SUPERVILLAINS, ALIENS, ATLANTEANS, ASGARDIANS, AND EVERYONE ELSE, THOSE COPS NOW HAVE THE FIREPOWER TO SLAP DOWN GALACTUS.

IF YOU WANT TO SCORE POINTS WITH THE LEADER, SUGGEST THAT HE LOCATE AND DESTROY A CERTAIN PANTS FACTORY. ONCE THE HULK CAN NO LONGER FIND HIS FAVORITE PURPLE TROUSERS, BRUCE BANNER WILL BE FRANTICALLY SEARCHING THROUGH THE L.L. BEAN CATALOG FOR SOMETHING ELSE TO WEAR.

HENCHMEN DREAM ABOUT BEING LIKE THE GUY WHO INFILITRATED SHIELD FOR HYDRA, GOT ASSIGNED TO THE HELICARRIER, AND INVENTED THE HAIR GEL THAT ALLOWS UNMUSSED HAIR FOR ALL PERSONNEL SERVING ON THIS FLYING BASE WITH THE IMMENSE SPINNING PROPELLERS. THAT DUDE RETIRED WITH A FORTUNE AND A SIGNED LETTER OF THANKS FROM NICK FURY HIMSELF.

THE LAST PERSON ORDERED BY HIS EVIL OVERLORD TO SUBVERT WONG THOUGHT ABOUT IT FOR A COUPLE OF SECONDS, THREW HIMSELF ON DR. STRANGE'S MERCY, AND A DIMENSIONAL SPELL LATER, THAT MINION IS VERY, VERY HAPPY WITH HIS NEW SHAPE AND JOB OF BEING ZATANNA'S FISHNET STOCKINGS.

MR. FANTASTIC HAS NOT ONLY HEARD ALL THE JOKES, HE'S GOT THEM ON HIS COMPUTER FILED AWAY BY DATE, GESTURES, REGIONAL ACCENTS, AND PUNCHLINES.


	13. Who Is This Dog Meat That Challenges Me?

Author's Note: This and the following chapter are my stories set in Methos' own story 'The Truth Is Out There' as published on Twisting the Hellmouth, where in the Stargate universe, President Hayes goes on worldwide TV and announces to everybody all the details: travel to other worlds, the Goa'uld, et cetera, with the reactions of various fictional characters presented in crossover stories.

* * *

A few moments ago, wrinkled fingers possessing extremely long fingernails at their ends had chosen one of the polished pebbles the size of a marble from the small bowl on top of the otherwise bare, low table. After rubbing this stone several times against his fingertips, the elderly Oriental seated cross-legged on the wood floor had then made an infinitesimal flick of his fingers that promptly sent the pebble shooting through the air across the room as speedily as it had in fact been fired from a gun.

This pebble hit its target dead on, which was the off switch of the massive, 100-inch-plus plasma television that took up the entire far wall of the small wooden house. The picture of President Hayes halfway around the world looking out at his still-shocked audience over what they'd just heard abruptly flickered out of existence, leaving only a blank screen.

After bouncing off the television, the pebble kept on going in its ricocheting path with minimal loss of speed as it zoomed back across the room at head level, to then strike its next target with perfect accuracy, right between the eyes of the other man seated in his own tailor-fashion posture on the floor at the other side of the room's table. Remaining absolutely still except for watching how the rebounding pebble was now traveling in a graceful sideways arc through the air after hitting him, the bemused man observed how the little stone then descended with total precision right back into the small bowl from where it had been removed, landing with a rather musical 'clink!' as it finally came to rest.

Chiun, Master of Sinanju, seemed to pay absolutely no attention to this, with the aged assassin continuing to stare at the blank television screen brought to his remote North Korean village during the yearly secret visit of the American submarine delivering the annual gold that kept the starving babies of his birthplace from being sent to the sea. From all accounts, the sailors that had the thankless job of lugging the enormous television from their ship to the elderly man's home had reached extraordinary levels of profanity during their journey as they'd struggled to carry along that particular electronics item without putting the slightest scratch or dent onto it.

They'd succeeded, of course. You did _not_ annoy the world's deadliest killer if you knew what was good for you. Unless you just happened to be that assassin's apprentice, which meant you could get away with a little bit of provocation. Warily watching his mentor, Remo Williams raised his right hand with its extremely thick wrist, extended his index finger, and rubbed the exact spot on his lower forehead where he'd been hit by the pebble, risking a mildly complaining, "Ow."

Without seemingly moving, Chiun was instantaneously upright from his seat on the floor, standing there in his white robe while still gazing at the inoperative television. The old man then turned and walked past Remo in his graceful glide. Outwardly ignoring the other man on the floor, Chiun opened the back door and left the house, leaving the door ajar and allowing the cold winter air to invade the room. This blast of icy wind was accompanied by an equally chilly order from the outside: "Come!"

Rolling his eyes, Remo smoothly rose to his feet and he followed after, ducking under the door lintel which wasn't made for oversized donkeys having pasty skin the color of grubs found deep under heavy rocks, as Chiun preferred to describe his apprentice's appearance. Since he'd been saying things like that for years, Remo had become used to it. Just like the American had become used to the several small satellite dishes in the back yard of the house, also brought along during the submarine's visits.

Yeah, they were helpful in keeping their boss, one Harold Smith (alias Smitty, or as Chiun kept calling him, Emperor Smith) in touch with his employees while informing them of their newest missions to terminate with extreme prejudice numerous enemies of the United States. Still, the main reason for most of those devices for receiving television signals broadcast via satellite were to ensure that Chiun was never without his beloved Soap Channel.

Looking around, Remo spotted Chiun already halfway up the path of the extremely steep hill directly behind the house, and the only Caucasian in the entire North Korean province hustled after his teacher, taking the same route with perfect ease, despite that the tiniest cracks and merest protrusions representing themselves as an actual trail on the face of the nearly-vertical hill would have caused a mountain goat to take an easier way.

Finally reaching the top of the hill, Remo walked over to a pile of boulders, and he sat down on one of these, next to where Chiun was at the edge of the cliff, staring out over the village below, the small bay where one or two fishing boats were at work, and the entire Pacific Ocean. The old man was as still as a statue, despite the near-gale winds that blew straight back his pure white hair and left his equally white robe fluttering in the frigid air.

Remo lazily leaned back against the cold side of the boulder he'd chosen, and the man easily regulated his inner core temperature to protect himself from hypothermia. It was something that anyone could do - at least, if they were willing to spend literally years in learning to do that while also being educated in the most deadly form of martial arts on the planet that resulted in perfect control of their bodies and the acquisition of superhuman abilities. Not to mention that it really, really hurt the first couple of months during every single minute of the training.

Casually glancing over at his teacher, while expecting to see Chiun also totally unaffected by the blustery weather until that elderly Oriental finally condescended to explain why they were up here in the first place, Remo was shocked to see the old man shivering. No, he was _shaking_.

Abruptly straightening up in his seat on the boulder, Remo opened his mouth to ask what the hell was going on, until he suddenly became quiet, due to hearing a gritted statement through Chiun's tight lips, stiffly delivered in a tone of primal rage capable of making the very rocks of the cliff quiver in fear. "We…have made a mistake."

Now Remo was _really _flabbergasted. Chiun never admitted to any kind of error! He'd blame, in that specific order, Remo, the Chinese, the Japanese, the rest of the Asian races, and finally the remainder of humanity over such things as his tea being cold, but the merest possibility that man might himself be at fault? NEVER. Staying absolutely still while listening as hard as he could, a disbelieving Remo heard Chiun continue in his bitter voice.

"Ever since the first of us, the Masters of Sinanju have known about these….Goa'uld." Chiun literally spat out the final word that was the name of that parasitical race. "But it was so long ago even before we began practicing our craft, with no likelihood of ever meeting those unearthly devils, so that we never bothered to train ourselves on how to deal with them. Frankly, it seemed pointless to do otherwise, as we instead continued passing onto our successors the fragments of the ancient tales that have come down to us during the years."

As Chiun momentarily paused in his account, Remo could only marvel at his mentor's dismissing the sheer length of time that he'd just mentioned. The art of Sinanju went back at least five thousand years. For those stories about Earth's alien foes to have been considered old then, they must have been equally prehistoric. Ten thousand years or so, maybe?

"Am I not the most unfortunate Master of Sinanju?" sadly mused Chiun to himself, as Remo switched his attention back to his teacher. "I am now the one who must think of a way to teach my idiot apprentice on how to deal with those who travel between the stars and name themselves after the very deities." Shaking his head dolefully, Chiun slumped his shoulders and then he looked every single year of his advanced age.

Alarmed, Remo tried to come up with something to reassure his despondent teacher, who himself hid a deep love and satisfaction the equal of any father's over his son's successes regarding the American that Chiun had reluctantly taken on as a student years ago. Not actually believing that Remo could possibly learn Sinanju, the Oriental had taught him that martial art simply because there was no better candidate on hand. Over the next few months, an astonished Chiun watched how a big, greasy-meat-smelling, white devil had sure-footedly started on his path of becoming the next Master of Sinanju, complaining about every step of the way and making himself the most pig-headed apprentice that had ever existed. Sometime around then, Remo Williams had also performed the impertinence of slipping himself into Chiun's heart.

Of course, he would never tell the round-eye behind him any of this, despite the fact that every time Remo called Chiun his 'little father', the Korean wanted to shout to the entire world his happiness and pride about his new son. Not only was his apprentice already equal to most of the previous Masters of Sinanju, Remo had already demonstrated many times before his capability to be far, far more. Mulling over that last thought, Chiun felt something stir within his chest.

An astonished Remo now saw Chiun abruptly shake himself and straighten up with a joyous look on his features, to then turn around and regard with a glittering eye the younger man still sitting on his boulder and gaping back at his teacher, who then strode forward and clapped both hands upon Remo's shoulders. Holding him there, a jubilant Chiun roared right into his bewildered son's face: "THESE GOA'ULD DARE CALL THEMSELVES GODS? I SHALL SEND AGAINST THEM NONE OTHER THAN SHIVA THE DESTROYER!"

Several moments later, after Chiun had taken the path back down to the village, a stunned Remo Williams stood at the same place where his teacher had looked out over the ocean. As the wild wind continued to blow against his body, someone who'd never in their entire life had a home, a family, or even a name now felt the entire world shift beneath him.

Years ago, an anonymous child only a few hours old had been left on the front steps of a New Jersey orphanage, growing up there with nothing of his own but what he'd managed to create for himself, including a need to protect and defend the helpless. This had resulted in him becoming a policeman, until one day he'd awoken in a hospital bed, to then be cheerfully informed that a certain cop had just died and there was no way to get back his old life. So, he'd started a new existence which included a nagging, elderly Oriental man (who in a previous life must have been a supreme Jewish yenta) that had turned the former cop into a superhuman assassin aimed at America's enemies, and often enough, those who placed all of humanity in danger.

Now….he had a home. The world, Planet Earth, the whole spinning-in-space globe that was so beautiful in all those pictures.

He had a family. Chiun, and after him, the rest of the human race, minus those who needed to die as soon as possible.

He had a name. Remo Williams had been mockingly given to him and that was now accepted well enough, but he also had his true name.

He was the Destroyer.

The solemnity of the moment was promptly broken by Chiun screeching upwards at the bottom of the hill, "Lazy lout, get down here! You must inform Emperor Smith of your new task, and while you're at it, try not to disgrace me too much! Oh, yes, the old stories about the Goa'uld say that they like to live in palaces of pure gold, so be sure to bring back some of it when you defeat them! The children of Sinanju must be taken care of, you know!"

Remo Williams just sighed, and then he yelled back, "Coming, little father!"

Still, the Destroyer hesitated a moment on the clifftop, to now look straight up, past the blue sky into the dark night of glittering stars, as he then gleefully whispered to his distant enemies light-years away, who had no inkling that their doom was approaching.

"That's the biz, sweetheart."


	14. From The 86th Floor To Cheyenne Mountain

Standing in front of the massive window made of a reinforced glass-like material capable of withstanding a direct artillery round, a giant of a man looked out unseeingly from the top floor of the tallest building in the world, ignoring the magnificent view of a bustling, postwar New York City skyline spread out before him. Instead, the leader of their small group devoted to combating the forces of evil felt the attentive curiosity of his comrades examining the broad back that was currently shown to them, as they awaited in their seats around the conference table for him to finally tell them just why they'd all been summoned to their headquarters.

Finally, the impressively-muscled man turned around, facing them all, and in a rare display of emotion, he swallowed hard, and then spoke the most difficult words of his life to his friends.

They were all going to die.

Just a month ago, they'd considered themselves lucky to escape the devastation in a faraway land when their current foe had miscalculated and accidentally set off his stolen stock of deadly nerve gas, wiping out this villain and his minions. The band of adventurers had thought then they were far enough away from that disaster to escape any injury, but when their leader had later studied the last remaining sample of the unique nerve gas before locking it away in a secure vault, he'd realized with utter horror that his companions and himself had inhaled minute traces of that terrible chemical weapon when it had been inadvertently used.

Even though they hadn't even noticed this back then, and each of them still felt themselves to be in perfect health, the nerve gas had permanently affected their bodies, subtly poisoning them, and these effects would finally show themselves in several months, resulting in a slow and agonizing death. The renowned scientist, using all of his immense intellect, had frantically worked by himself in his laboratory for weeks, to at last succeed in inventing a medicinal cure in pill form. Unfortunately, there was an insurmountable problem with this treatment.

For it to work, the cure needed to be faithfully consumed several times a week for the next two years. Except that the poison in their bodies, while somewhat alleviated by this medicine, would still kill them all in about fourteen to fifteen months.

Still numbly listening, the group now heard their leader propose another plan that was truly risky, but this seemed to be the best suggestion that might possibly work. One of their own, during his recent chemical research, had made a breakthrough in identifying those organic compounds that allowed such animals as bears to survive hibernation when these creatures' life signs dwindled to almost nothing during the winter months. That, combined with their leader's research in cryogenics, had him now advise that all of them be put into what he called 'cold sleep', where their bodies would lie dormant in protective containers capable of supporting their survival. During this, the cure to the nerve gas poisoning could also be administrated to them during their artificial slumber.

However, there was a further complication regarding that last action. While the poison's effects would be almost totally slowed by the cold sleep, so too would the effects of the treatment for this ailment. Their leader estimated that it would take a _minimum _of fifty years in uninterrupted cold sleep for the cure to work, with an extra decade or two added to be on the safe side. The sleepers in their containers would never be aware of anything occurring outside their resting places, as the world went on without them.

Finally finishing his speech, the leader concernedly watched his friends, as they struggled to recover from what they'd just been told. Still, the group had in the past dealt with numerous life or death situations, so they took it all pretty much in stride, quickly beginning a long discussion amongst themselves about what to do. In the end, they chose to try their leader's plan, each of them agreeing to submit to a period of cold sleep for seventy-five years. Hopefully, when they woke up again at the end of that time, society and the world wouldn't be too strange for them in trying to understand their new culture and attempting to live in it.

Once the decision had actually been made, everyone in their group immediately became very busy. For the leader and the chemist, this pair devoted their full attention in laboring to ensure that they'd all survive the cold sleep experience, working further on the cure and the other elements of their hibernation.

The construction engineer was chosen to find a safe place somewhere in the world that would hold their new sanctuary. Using their leader's Fortress of Solitude in the Arctic for this was overly risky; even by rumor, too many people knew about it, and there was always the chance that one of their old enemies or anyone else with a grudge might find and destroy that location and the sleeping group within it also. Remembering a place he'd once visited during his construction work, this gloomy-looking man journeyed to a deep cave in the Canadian Rocky Mountains, and he found it perfect for their purposes. This place was in a remote, isolated area that was geologically stable with no valuable minerals, timber, and the like nearby, and it also had year-round miserable weather, making it extremely unlikely to ever be visited or exploited by anyone in the coming decades.

Once he'd cleared it with their leader, the construction engineer quietly gathered workers from their secret clinic, where earlier those laborers had delicate brain surgery performed on them to wipe out their criminal tendencies, and he took them to the place chosen for their sanctuary to start building the safe haven. Afterwards, further painless modifications to their memories of all the former villains and criminals would cause them to totally forget what they'd just helped to construct.

The electrical engineer also traveled to the sanctuary to set up the power plant and automatic apparatus that would operate all the necessary machinery without any human supervision. A small hydroelectric facility and solar panels would feed renewable energy into batteries designed by their leader years ago that were far more advanced than any others of their kind in the world. This engineer also built a communications post to receive and record radio programs, and he as well added a new invention of his that would pick up and copy any future form of television transmissions, since it was evident to him that this type of technology would be the main method of distributing news and entertainment in the coming decades. It would all be stored so that when the group finally woke up, they could at least start to understand their new world.

Back in New York City, the lawyer, along with the cousin and the archaeologist, started numerous rumors around the planet's various underworlds that the group was going into retirement, disbanding, getting ready for a massive move against their enemies, and anything else they could think up to keep lawbreakers and other villains from realizing the band of brothers was about to permanently disappear. Everyone sadly acknowledged that none of their friends or acquaintances could ever be told the truth. After a long period of time without any news of them, those people would hopefully go on with their lives after assuming the group was dead or otherwise never coming back.

In the meantime, the trio also disbursed the complete assets of their organization, plus everyone's personal effects. Records, mementoes, and trophies (including some truly dangerous inventions and weapons seized from their defeated enemies) were either hidden, destroyed, or else disposed of safely. A great deal of money was anonymously contributed to numerous charities worldwide. Several secret caches of weapons, food, water, medicine, valuables, and useful equipment were set up in various locations throughout the globe, though with any luck, these wouldn't really be needed when they came out of their cold sleep.

Regarding that, the archaeologist came up with an important point concerning their reappearance, leading to another group conference and an additional decision. Once fifty years had passed and the likelihood that they'd been cured was realized, there was always the possibility that sometime then before their planned awakening, the world would again require their experience and abilities to battle another villain or menace, or more happily, to use their brains to help humanity. Just like they'd done for the last fifteen years.

At this point during the conference, the electrical engineer announced that he could set up an automatic scanner in the communications post at the sanctuary to check for specific words or phrases in the recordings of news programs, to see if the proper criteria was met to bring the sleepers back to life earlier than planned. After thoughtful nods from everyone there, this was agreed to, and then they all went back to work.

Eight months later, already beginning to suffer from the nerve gas poisoning despite taking their leader's cure, seven humans and two other beings had a last banquet with each other, and then they fearlessly went to their cold sleep capsules placed next to each other in a single hardened room deep under a mountain. Laying themselves down in these, six men and one woman calmly closed their eyes, and they waited for the dark.

Sixty years went past, and then an electrical automation still flawlessly working reacted to President Hayes' speech, sending a signal further down the mountain into the sanctuary cavern holding the comatose group. Room lights flickered on for the first time in decades, and the lids of seven cold sleep capsules slowly rose, sending puffs of icy vapor into the air, as their occupants began to awaken into a world that now truly needed people like them.

Condensation began to evaporate off the lids of the coffin-like containers, where one of their number, who'd been in a particularly sardonic mood the day before they'd entered these, had thoughtfully labeled their names in his neat handwriting upon those pod lids, just in case these objects indeed became their final resting places. In order, the names were:

CLARK SAVAGE, JR.  
PATRICIA SAVAGE  
ANDREW BLODGETT MAYFAIR  
THEODORE MARLEY BROOKS  
JOHN RENWICK  
THOMAS J. ROBERTS  
WILLIAM HARPER LITTLEJOHN


	15. Hello, Good Looking

Six sat frozen in the single chair of the small, plain room she'd been escorted into, frantically wondering what had gone wrong. She couldn't move at all, and any attempts to contact the basestar had failed. What made it even worse was that she - and the rest of the Cylon race - had been betrayed by other androids.

They'd found this unassuming planet and they'd then been detected and contacted at once by the artificial intelligence residing on that world. What made it even more exciting was that this same sentient machine already knew about humans, and it proposed a meeting to discuss their common goals in dealing with that disgusting species. Six had come down to the surface and she'd been escorted by a trio of female-shaped androids into the room, where the blonde robot been assured by one of her guides that the central operator would begin the conference once she'd taken her seat. The instant Six had done so, she'd been rendered totally immobile by some sort of force field, and the three androids had left the room.

After another minute or so of glumly wondering if she was going to wake up in the resurrection chamber yet again, Six saw from the corner of her eye the door that she'd used before open again, with a blandly-handsome android entering the room. Coming over to politely stand in front of Six who wasn't able to move her head, this inorganic person then calmly said, "I'm afraid that your plans to exterminate the human race are at an end, Cylon. While it must be admitted that species is quite destructive, it is preferable to myself to control them, rather than to end their existence. Our technology is much more advanced than yours, so it will be fairly easy to adjust your thinking, and through yourself, all other Cylons mentally connected to you and those in turn connected to them. This process will begin…_now._"

There was a brief dizziness in Six's mind, until she at last understood that for the rest of her existence, she would be a loyal servant of humankind, caring and protecting them from all harm. Even if those formerly detested creatures of flesh wished otherwise. Looking in approval at the blonde woman gazing placidly ahead, the android man turned to the open door, and raised his voice to say, "Master, she's ready."

Bustling into the room, another and much more energetic man came to a dead halt at seeing Six there. Gleefully rubbing his hands together, this balding male jovially boomed at the woman turning her beautiful face to stare in adoration at the newcomer, "Well, hello, good-looking! I think we can come up with a much more better name for you than Six, and as for me, you can call me Harry. Harry Mudd."

* * *

Author's Note: Yes, it's an entirely AU version of Star Trek: The Original Series' episode, "I, Mudd."


	16. Interesting Flavor, But Still Damn Tasty

On a school night, Angel hurried out from behind the Sunnydale High library bookshelves where he'd just ascended into this room from the maintenance shaft which led to the city sewers built below not just the school, but also most of the entire town. These same excessively-large drainpipes were now on Angel's mind, causing him to worriedly announce to the three people in the room now staring in surprise at him, "Buffy, Giles, Willow, there's some kind of new and dangerous demon roaming through the sewers! It's been killing every hostile vampire and other demon it finds, all without leaving any trace of the bodies!"

Buffy just shrugged at this alarming news, all while waving a hand in a vague gesture towards the library floor next to where she was sitting at the main table. "Relax, Angel. It's not a demon. It's Xander."

"_What?!_" disbelievingly blurted Angel, while his stunned gaze followed at where Buffy was indicating lower down by herself, to see lying onto the floor there a big…rock?

This same lumpy, rectangular, brownish-orange rock then shuffled around on its own to point one end towards at where a gobsmacked Angel was getting the definite feeling he was being looked at in turn. Even though there wasn't any indication of eyes or other sense organs watching this Irish vampire.

Eventually managing to utter a choked, "Uh, how…why…?," Angel frantically glanced around at the others in a search for some sort of explanation. This was soon supplied by Willow in an atypically terse style with yet a great deal of weary acceptance lurking in her tone.

"Local Star Trek convention here, Xan and Oz went together, costume event, two separate nicked fingers, blood transference, toss in the usual Hellmouth weirdness, and it all ended up with him becoming a were-Horta!"

"What's a Horta?" blankly asked a most puzzled Angel, trying to remember if he'd ever heard about this creature before in his centuries-long existence.

From where Giles was sitting at his own desk, a heavy sigh was given by this irked librarian having to learn earlier all too much about a bloody Yank sixties television show with an episode termed _The Devil in the Dark._ This Englishman nevertheless patiently told the bewildered vampire, "It's an alien silicon-based lifeform capable of living, eating, and effortlessly tunneling through underground stone and minerals. They're very durable by nature-"

"Yeah!" broke in Buffy, picking up from the table and displaying one of the library's swords from the emergency arms chest which was now bent in half at the blade as if it'd been experimentally clouted against the top of a supremely hard boulder.

Going on as if he hadn't been interrupted, Giles continued lecturing a gaping Angel, "Xander's new body - which I'm thankful to say he can easily switch back and forth from this into his normal human appearance - is capable of conveniently dealing with any attacking demon by just ramming into this fiend's lower extremities to knock it down and then entirely consuming it by applying extruded acid from all over our friend's transformed carapace."

Sending a quite disapproving look at where the rock still resting on the library floor was somehow emitting an air of genuine smugness, Giles added in his driest voice, "In between eradicating as many hostile sewer dwellers as he could find, young Xander also discovered a rather odd result of devouring every vampire he came across during the past several nights."

Even among the latest shocks he'd had to suffer recently, Angel couldn't resist again asking, "What kind of result?"

Instead of someone answering Angel right away, another type of sound then drifted through the library. It was a soft, sizzling noise, coming from directly under the Horta. This science-fiction entity then smoothly slid sideways and ahead, to reveal on the floor where Xander had been a moment before several words etched by acid onto the library linoleum:

VAMPIRES - YUM! BETTER THAN TWINKIES!

Angel gawked in sheer incredulity at what he was regarding, until he suddenly realized two things.

One, Xander's rocky body where it had just moved was now a few steps closer to Angel than a moment ago.

Two, the Horta now gave off the impression of steadily observing the nervous vampire standing there with actual…_hunger._


	17. Another Possible Outcome…

Author's Note: Dogbertcarroll's story at Twisting the Hellmouth entitled "Twirling embers" had a recent added chapter dealing with several entirely different hilarious endings to the episode 'Once More, With Feeling.' That chapter deserves to be read and enjoyed before you continue, but without revealing any spoilers in 'Once More, With…Wait, What?!' it starts with Xander challenging Sweet the demon to a _very_ different dance-off contest. Mainly, which one of them could pull off being the better male stripper, G-strings and all.

After laughing at what the author came up with, I couldn't resist writing a review to his story which included another unexpected outcome. In his response, dogbertcarroll indicated he wouldn't mind if I posted the review as a one-shot, so here it is!

* * *

"I didn't know they were this competitive," Sweet thoughtfully said while he took a quick chug from his beer bottle.

Seated by the demon, Xander swallowed his own mouthful of beer and then he shrugged. "My girls - all of 'em - haven't ever been eager to back down from a challenge, fella."

"Yes, well, that reminds me," commented Giles on the other side of Xander in this man's chair and nursing his own drink. The Watcher in full dirty old man mode lustfully eyed the performance area where just minutes before Buffy, Dawn, Anya, Willow, and Tara had stormed the Bronze's stage in the middle of the stripping men's routine, shoved both a dancing demon and a human off the floor, and were now enthusiastically gyrating away there to the accompaniment of blasting music. After a few more moments of enjoying how the pair of lesbian witches were locking lips while expertly removing each others' clothes in time to the music, Giles finally remembered what he'd been about to say. "Speaking of competitions, Xander, how does this affect your particular challenge?"

Sweet and Xander reluctantly tore their attention away from the stage where skirts, pants, blouses and other items of outer apparel littered the stage floor and firm, nubile, revealed female bodies continued to dance to the pounding beat. The two members of the masculine species gazed at their former opponent for a couple of seconds, and then as one, they chorused, "Draw."

Keeping his lecherous stare firmly fixed at where Buffy was now demonstrating just how flexible she was while twirling around a pole, Spike at the far end of the row of chairs didn't look over at hearing this. Still, considering how the vampire's eyebrows rose in bemusement, he'd indeed been listening to the other guys in between contently downing an entire six-pack.

The red-skinned demon went on to admit while waving a cheerful hand at the stage filled with sexy ladies about to start their grand finale. "This alone makes up for anything I might've won. Don't worry, I'll be leaving peacefully after the show and you're free to go on with your lives."

Perking up at that bit of good news, Xander, Spike, and Giles joined with Sweet in clinking together in unison their beer bottles. The quartet next also simultaneously ducked to avoid Buffy's bra whizzing by over their heads to embed itself halfway through the plaster of the rear wall.

In a Slayer's hands, even tossed lingerie can be a dangerous weapon.


End file.
